Fingering the Keys
by Phrenology of a Waffle
Summary: WilsonStacy, possibly AU: “Instantly, she remembers: She left the door unlocked, which is unusual for her. She’s a person who likes to protect her possessions and likes her possessions – some of them, anyway – to protect her.”


A/N: Hello, folks. Yes, I know it's been a while since I've updated or written anything, and this was just for a Het Ficathon over at LiveJournal. I wrote for animagiblender, and here were my rules:

**Pairing:** Wilson/Stacy -- **Three things that must be included in the fanfiction:** Must be post-infarction but pre-breakup, guilt, hurt/comfort -- **Three things that cannot be included in the fanfiction:**PWP (porn with plot is acceptable, though), a complete lack of House, rape, and 'midget porn'. (Don't even ask.)

"The Land of Qualms" will be updated eventually. I haven't abandoned it; I've just lost some motivation to work on it. Maybe I'll put out a few more one-shots before it's finished. And thank you to all the patient readers and reviewers.

**Disclaimer:** That's the best joke I've heard all week.

* * *

Fingering the Keys

He approaches the door and knocks three times – just to let her know he's there, just to let her know that it's him – but he doesn't hear anything to indicate that anyone is home or still breathing. Luckily, he knows not to worry – although he continues to do so because it is in his nature as a caring person – because he does the same thing. With his job, where he saves the diseased, dying, and distressed from what ails them, his house is the only place where he is able to control his pace, and he embraces that pleasure. Still, no one has answered. He places his hand on the knob and turns it, feeling the controlled and slow twist of the brass in his hand. It's unlocked, and so he steps inside. Funny. Why hadn't he tried that in the first place?

Because he knows Stacy cares for what she owns. Especially her Houses. Both of them.

He closes the door, hearing it click when it does. He begins moving towards the center of the house, putting his hand in his pocket as he goes. He notices that the floor is immaculate in some places, unseen in others. Somehow, it reminds him of the anatomy of the Earth, its continents and oceans. The Asia of paper sits near the northeastern corner and flanking it on three sides, an oaken sea. He thinks it may be somewhat symbolic of the owners' relationship with each other. And, sadistically, but somewhat sadly, he hopes it is.

Suddenly, he hears a noise in-front of him. He has stopped walking, and all of this time he has been staring at the floor, trying to decipher any abstract meaning from what he has seen. But now he looks up. She is standing directly ahead of him, leaning on the green-tinted wall, looking lethargic and slightly worn. He notices that her fingers have strands of tobacco embedded in the nails while she notices his shifting slightly in his pocket.

And all he can do is stare and softly stroke.

* * *

She watches the smoke rise up from the cigarette she has clasped between the two fingers on her right hand, the cool blue color of it consoling her frantic thoughts. Cure the mind and kill the rest. It sounds fair to her. 

Right now she's sitting in a cubbyhole next to her – no, our bedroom, she thinks, mine and his – and smoking away all chance of revelation on how to repair her relationship.

God, she hates that word. Relationship. She cringes, puts out her cigarette, and searches for the bottle of gin she has hidden in the back corner of the tiny room. And, as she reaches for it, she notices the beam of light stretching across the dusty floor and stopping at the end wall. How ironic, she thinks, that that beam of light is like her. She went for five years with little to no trouble – sure, here and there she may have hit an extremely dirty spot, but doesn't everyone? – and now here she is, her light, her happiness, her relationship – another cringe, and she picks up the bottle, untwists the cap, and takes a swill – stopped by a wall. Maybe the wall just hasn't stopped her – she searches for the word – "association" with him, but maybe it has caused her to crash and allow her to die a slow, painful death.

At this point, she sardonically reasons, even Chinese Water Torture seems more appealing. She'll take insanity over whatever this is any day.

Suddenly, she hears footsteps from out in the living room. She is going insane, and now she just has to wait for the voices in her head to come. Or maybe….

Instantly, she remembers: She left the door unlocked, which is unusual for her. She's a person who likes to protect her possessions and likes her possessions – some of them, anyway – to protect her.

Now if only she could protect her from herself, from her emotions and dirty habits.

Slowly, she pushes open the door, crawls out on her hands and knees, and thinks about how symbolism is rampant in her thoughts and actions today, about how her life is being reflected in the actions of other things as well, taking place before her like a traumatizing play. And, oh, how it pains her so.

She stands and allows her feet to gingerly carry her to the doorway. She can hear her light, quick breath, although inside she can hear the low, deep moans of the excitement flaring in her abdomen. Fear has always aroused her, yet she prefers to avoid living on the edge. But, still, she walks further, knowing her sense of better judgment just lingers back near the bedroom and the cubbyhole. She is now approaching the doorway, and when she reaches it, she peers cautiously.

And there stands Wilson, staring at the ground, obviously entranced by something that she cannot see. She stands there for another moment, and decides that it is in her best interest to capture his attention. So, moving gracefully, she slides around the doorway and leans seductively against the green-tinted wall. She shifts her weight, her elbow tapping the wall and producing a noise.

Quickly, his eyes move upward, taking in her appearance, but then they look down to her hand. She knows she looks slightly haggard, but she realizes instantly that her sexual appeal is still shining through to him. His fingers are shifting in his pocket, and she feels herself swallow. Thank God he thinks her hands are the choicest part of her body right now. But, even though the sight of him arouses her, – and it shouldn't, because the fear has passed, and she's still involved with someone – it also comforts her.

"Hi," he simply says, though his voice is higher than usual.

"Hi."

It's an awkward moment. After being in that long silence, it feels strange to speak, like her throat is closed and the words are being torn and mangled on their way up to her lips.

"I…I just came to see how you were doing. I know things have been rough ever since – since after the…"

"I know, and I thank you. And it has been hard, too hard, actually. I mean, I just – he still doesn't get it. I was his subpoena, damnit! I saved his life, and what do I get? Guilt. God, when life bites you in the ass, it bites hard."

She chuckles a little, despite the tears in her eyes, and so does he. Both of their expressions are morose, along with their laughs. She lets a deep groan escape her as she feels the tears vacate her eyes and dampen her cheeks. Her body has become limp and meek, flattening under the weight of depression. Wilson walks over to her, and she feels his arms grab hold to her petite figure; her hands have been lying at her side the whole time, and now she slides one onto his chest, letting it rest between their bodies. She feels him breathe inward – from shock or stimulation, she's not quite sure – as her other hand wraps around his back.

"Stacy, what are you…?" he manages to say before she quiets him. She begins to touch his ribs, letting her narrow fingers slide over them like they are piano keys. She doesn't know why she is doing what she is doing. Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe the cigarettes, or possibly repressed attraction. Whatever it may be, she likes it and refuses to stop. "Just accepting the comfort of a…a friend."

"Yes, well, this friend is married," he states, but, even so, she can feel the erection forming through his trousers.

"But you don't have to be for long," she whispers in a husky voice. Her fingers slip downward to fondle with the edge of his trousers.

"True. But you have someone – someone who needs you. He may not realize it yet, but he…"

He stops, feeling her lips against his shaven cheek. She deeply inhales his scent and wonders why she has never noticed any of these admiral qualities of his before now. "If someone needs me, I want that person to show it. And you are."

He sighs, but it's not an exasperated sigh. It's more of a small but pleasurable moan, yet he persists in his argument, "Stacy, please…"

For a moment, she feels guilty again, guilty for what she's doing to him, guilty for what she could do, guilty for what she has done. But she doesn't stop. Not because she's obstinate, not because she's dominating.

She doesn't stop because she can't. She needs to be consoled, and she fears he's the only one who can do it right.

"Wilson, just once. Please. It doesn't need to be long. I just want to forget everything, if only for any hour."

He puts his head on her shoulder, almost bowing in submission. "Okay," he says, and she can feel the streams of remorse shoot from him to her.

And she passes her better judgment on the way to the bedroom and watches it look away as she closes the door.

* * *

They're both lying naked next to each other. She knows perfectly well how she came to be in her – still our, she thinks again, although the chance of that changing is imminent – but, to add a comedic twirl to the situation, she'll say it was because of hypnosis brought on by the entrancing pattern on Wilson's red silk tie, which now lays at the end of her bed like a crimson, wilted rose. 

And that's what the relationship – she leans towards the draw on the table next her bed and opens it, searching for the cigarettes she has hidden there; she's never smoked after sex, but that awful word just causes her to do awful things – she has, or had at this point, is like now. It has died, yet, even though she knows that it's over, she still doesn't want to admit it. Why, though? Is denial really that wonderful, or is it because heartbreak is just so much more damaging? She knows this is serious. She's just jeopardized almost five years of bliss for sixty minutes of sex.

Sixty divided by five is twelve, and that's how many inches tall she feels right now. She won't deny that she enjoyed every minute of what she and Wilson did, but she will deny that the composition of a relationship is ending while the symphony of an affair begins.

But her fingers are tired. Tired of playing the piano and thinking about which key to strike next in order to create a harmonious melody and to keep the melodious harmony synchronized with it. To keep that relationship moving smoothly, flawlessly.

And then she is obligated to keep her others affairs – personal and public, intimate and formal – in order, creating a base for everything, and her end result is a composition fit for anyone in her present state-of-mind. Melancholy with a twist, depression with a twirl, misery with a spin. "The Symphony of Sadness" she will call it, and she can almost hear the crowds jeering now. Is there even such a thing as pain in art form anymore?

Suddenly, she feels the tension of the mattress next to her lessen, and in another moment, she sees Wilson, clad in a bathrobe, strolling out of the room, the robe moving about his ankles in such a way that with a second glance from her he looks almost godly.

She decides to follow him out of the room, donning a robe as well, feeling the cool air upon her legs. It's funny, though, because she is walking numbly and yet she can feel every detail of her surroundings. And every imperfection on her body.

He has just walked through the doorway, the low sun falling upon his already-godly-looking body, creating even more of an illusion of divinity. It is strange, though, how a man who was just adulterous can look as pure and innocent and holy as he does. Stacy, on the other hand, continues to look as she did earlier, but she feels all the better. Maybe Wilson's "consolation" is taking effect. Sex, alcohol, and cigarettes, she thinks, the perfect cure for the perfect ruin. The perfect cocktail for the cunning adulterer.

She is now standing in the doorway, watching Wilson sit before the piano. He strokes the keys adoringly, just like someone else she knows, someone she knew, someone she doesn't want to know anymore. From her present knowledge, he doesn't play the piano, but that doesn't matter; she feels inclined to sit next to him on the bench all the same, so she does. He does not seem to mind, but rather, he seems to enjoy her presence, just as she enjoyed his earlier.

Both of them now look at the black-and-white keys, but she finds deeper meaning in them. She connects them to her relationship – and the components of the relationship in general. She knows relationships are like compositions of music, especially those played upon a piano. She knows that each one is unique, whether or not it is harmonious as well. She knows that what she has here with this man sitting next to her could possibly put an end to the ongoing composition she's played for five years and help her create a new piece to perform, a new piece to grace the ears of those who know her and those who love her – and even those who soon will have, at one time, loved her. Stacy knows that the black and white keys contrast each other, just as she and her soon-to-be-former lover do – or, rather, did. She had a balanced relationship, like the scales. She rarely hit a wrong key or accidentally accelerated the tempo, but now she has just let her hands run wildly over the keys – just as they ran wildly over Wilson's back as they both kissed.

All of a sudden, she feels Wilson leave her side again and hears him waltz into the bedroom and undress out his robe. But she continues to sit there. She refuses to move, move to something new waiting for her in the near distance. It's not that she doesn't want to do so, not at all; she'd be happy to end what she has now and move to something new and possibly better. It's just that she's not ready. She needs to at least try and mend the broken composition, to tighten and loosen the wires to keep the piano in-tune, to sit upon the bench and rewrite the ending of her old song.

Unfortunately, though, she's not patient enough to do so. She knows it would just be easier to close the lid on the piano and walk away, and she almost does. Just as she begins to stand, she sees Wilson come through the doorway. He walks to where she has just sat again, bends, and kisses her lightly on the cheek. "Good luck," he whispers into her auburn hair before walking to the door and shutting it behind him, keeping all of the secrets of their afternoon together locked inside. She turns to the piano and lays her fingers upon the keys.

She knows that she's just fingering the keys but not allowing them to produce a sound. She doesn't want anymore commotion, any more noise. At this moment, all she wants to hear and not hear is the sound of slender hands jingling keys in the lock. She wants that composition of her former life to dance out the door to its own tune, yet she's not ready to release everything just yet.

Then she remembers the door is open and that everything from the afternoon is still inside. And she knows that her former life is almost gone.

But not quite.


End file.
